Blue Stones and Golden Tales
by Artemisdesari
Summary: An archaeologist makes a startling discovering in a cavern in Thalesia and is plunged into a world of ancient magic, Church Knights and forbidden love. Can she find her way home and does she really want to? Can she do it without changing the past?


_I have absolutely no idea where this came from, and only the vaguest clue where it's going. Point of the matter is, I have a fic to finish and two others that I'm also working on. What I have been lately, however, is spectacularly blocked and the fact that this took me only an hour to tap out makes it the easiest thing that I have written in a while. It might help clear the fluff a little._

_That said, this is my first forey into the realm of David Eddings fic, and it's only taken me twelve years to write something that I think I can be happy to continue for long enough to post and finish. Sparhawk and co., though mentioned, won't come into this unless I chose to continue, and I think I will, but I like a little encouragement on occasion.  
_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't have the talent to own this, though I blame Eddings for the amout of time I have spent writing over the twelve years since I discovered his work. It's not mine and I promise to give it back after I have messed with our dear knights a little.  
_

Blue Stones and Golden Tales.

The sound of the waterfall cascading through the cavern was overwhelming, cutting over all speech and making even conscious thought difficult. The occupants of the cavern, however, were able to ignore it for the most part, discounting the university administrator, the three women and eight men had been working in this place for the better part of two months. Between them exists a rudimentary series of hand signals, signals adapted from the gestures used to enhance the practice of the arts of Styricum, that are used to communicate the most basic of ideas even though they have the headsets charmed by the university mystics to aid them.

They work around each other well, soft brushes moving with practised ease over shards of stone and clay, sharp eyes working through the gleaming light of the midday sun which cascades down the fast flowing water to light up the cavern for a few hours each day. Once the light begins to fade, the people working here will have to leave, no power supply this deep in the mountains to run the strong lights needed to continue their work. This time restraint means that they move rapidly, cataloguing as they go in the rapid short hand that seems developed for just this situation and with the flash of cameras as they visually record each find.

Of the eleven people here, ten have gathered near the edge of the precipice, occasionally glancing over the edge with the longing that shows they wish to head down and unlock it's secrets but that they lack the ability to do so. One of them, however, has turned her attention elsewhere, to another room where the ancient ruins of a wooden table and tools have captured attention and imagination.

Her lips move constantly as she brushes at the dirt, moving earth and dust to reveal stone tools and the bright glitter of diamond shards. These are not what she searches so eagerly for, though, and they are hastily recorded and stored in a bag with little thought to the wealth being set casually to one side. As the light from the large cavern begins to fail she turns her attention back to the others, sets a hand on the floor to steady herself as she clambers to her feet and hisses in sudden pain as a sharper stone or gem fragment cuts into her palm. It is a brief flash and is gone as quickly when she wipes her hand on her dusty trousers, dismissed with lack of concern as so many other cuts and bruises she has obtained since this dig began have been.

Her colleagues and companions are not so quick to move with the fading light as she, the last glittering rays of the sun lighting the cavern causing her auburn hair to blaze brilliantly about her head as she turns her attention to them. They seem almost dream like in this fading light, their grubby trousers and sweat stained t-shirts out of synch with the peaceful calm of the cavern and the still untouched corners where they have allowed centuries of dust and mystery to remain undisturbed as they search for that one thing, that one proof, that some of the more fantastical elements of their history are, in reality, fact.

They are searching for evidence of the existence of the troll-dwarf Ghwerig and, therefore, of the creation of the greatest myth of their world. They search for evidence of Bhelliom.

Just finding the precise location of this cavern took scholars centuries, digging through the piles of rock supposedly brought down by Sir Sparhawk has taken decades. These eleven are the lucky few who get to take part in the dream of thousands, the lucky ones who know their history and their legends well enough to know the places to look and to dig. They are watched over, guarded, by some of the last remnants of the Knights of the Church and it is three of these men who come with torches to gather them and take them back to their camp high in the mountains when the light fades to nothing and they are plunged into total darkness.

Finds still clutched tightly in their hands, these men and women walk the same path that they believe Sparhawk and his companions walked twelve centuries ago. Some days they chatter excitedly about their finds, a human bone here and a cattle jaw there with great teeth marks in them, other days their steps are weary and without hope. This day they are tired, have found little more than the bones of the dead and the forgotten, and the administrator is quick to remind them that they have only two more weeks until summer is over and the site must be abandoned. It muffles what little spirit they have left and the walk back into the sun is taken in silence.

All the while her injured palm itches and burns and the archaeologist mumbles a curse, her hands too full and the pace too quick for her to drop her finds to scratch. There is the beckon of daylight, however, and she quickens her pace, now eager to be out of the oppressive darkness and back at the camp she will call home for a short time longer.

The base camp is not much, a small collection of tents near the stream which emerges from the cave network. Warmth is found from the fire which is kept burning by the company cook and food is delivered by pack mule, the roads this deep in the mountain too treacherous for any other form of transport, and should one of them have an accident they may not reach a hospital for days. It is a basic existence, but one that the archaeologist enjoys.

She blinks her green eyes against the sharpness of the summer sun, too long in the muted torchlight provided by the knights. Her finds set safely on table within the tent set up for cleaning, she digs her fingernails into her palm to relieve the persistent itch and hisses at the pain it causes as she heads in search of the first aid kit. As unconcerned as she is for it, there is no harm in washing and bandaging the wound.

Her hand is caked in thick mud, the mingling of dust and blood, and in the sunlight she blinks at this sign that her injury is more severe than she had thought. She washes her hands in a bowl of barely warm water provided by the cook, watches as it becomes stained with red and brown and she sees something glitter and glint below the surface. The red head pulls her hand from the water, wiping it dry and clean with a towel only to stare at what is before her.

In the centre of her palm is an irregular shard of stone that shines deepest blue in the centre, bleeding to white that is stained deep and angry red where it touches her skin. The join, when she touches it, is smooth and no matter how hard she scrapes at the edge with her nails she can find no way to dig it loose and free. Soon the already enraged flesh that surrounds the stone is stained deep red with fresh blood and her breaths are coming in short and terrified gasps as she stares down at it, pale skin so drawn that it is almost grey and tears streaming from her cheeks to mingle with the gore in her palm.

It is as the crimson liquid touches the centre of the stone that she hears, feels, a shriek of agony and the wave of it rides through her, driving her to her knees as the world around her blacks and greys. Consciousness flees her with the sound of a voice that seems to speak for all eternity.

"_Salvage the line, Ilrinia."_


End file.
